


Falling rain

by WahlBuilder



Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, comfort no plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:09:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27404836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Anton finds Viktor on the threshold of his apartment.
Relationships: Anton Rogue/Viktor Watcher
Kudos: 5





	Falling rain

Anton leaves his apartment, trying to fix his collar against the rain—and nearly walks into Viktor.

Viktor, soaked, the short hair plastered to his skull but stubbornly trying to curl. Viktor, smoking a cigarette that threatens to go out any moment. Eyes down. As though he’s just happened here. Not for anything. He looks so... broken in some indescribable way. Ruffled a little, a little out of place, out of sorts.

Viktor lifts his gaze with a delay, as though he’s surprised to find Anton here or surprised to find himself here. Looks him up and down, then his gaze slides to the side, and he takes another drag.

The longer Anton watches him, the less he likes it. The details are just not Viktor. Although there is his gray jacket, but it looks like it’s been simply thrown over the rest of the... ensemble. It’s not even closed. The shirt is stark white—but Viktor usually wears turtlenecks. The collar is undone, speckled with water, and there are red marks on Viktor’s throat, like dusting of old paint.

Anton wants to stop Viktor’s hand when Viktor tries to take another drag—but feels like any touch would provoke… something. “You are going to make yourself sick.” He doesn’t add whether he means from smoking or being soaked. “Come inside?”

He wonders whether there’s any more damage in addition to those red marks. Physical and otherwise. He wonders whether Viktor even realizes where he is. (The question of why he would come to Anton while he’s not exactly entirely present in his own head... Well, Anton can explore it later.)

It’s so easy to assume that Viktor can always take care of himself, fight for himself, that whatever might have happened to him, he _allowed_ it to happen. He is the detective, the Director of the ASC. Everything is under control for him.

But it is not always so. Not now, it appears.

The important thing is that Viktor is here and definitely needs warmth and a change of clothes.

Viktor’s hand stops halfway to his lips, the cigarette finally going out with a feeble hiss from a fat raindrop. “I... am not certain...” He sounds wrong, too: his voice is flat and thin.

Anton opens the door wider, steps aside. “Please. You are soaked through. At least stay until the rain ends.”

He takes the cigarette out of Viktor’s hand—and Viktor flinches, just a little but enough that Anton notices. Other than the flinch, Viktor doesn’t do anything else to show his discomfort with a shadow of a touch, even though Anton knows Viktor can land a very good punch.

Блядство.

Viktor does step inside, but stops nearly immediately, a puddle forming under him.

Anton sighs. “I wouldn’t keep you in the doorway. Take off your shoes?”

Viktor toes them off: they are not his usual shoes either, and in other times he would sit down, undo the laces, put the shoes perfectly on the rack. Such carelessness raises alarms for Anton. Viktor isn’t careless with things.

“Viktor?” No answer. “Vitya,” he tries softly.

Viktor looks up, eyes ill.

“Vitya, if you want, you can take a shower.”

“You never call me Vitya.” Each word comes after a brief pause, as though remembering how to talk takes a great effort. Or maybe it’s remembering who he’s with. Or maybe just… remembering.

“I’m sorry. I won’t do it.” He still doesn’t reach out to help Viktor out of the coat, out of the shirt, out of all this fuckery—whatever it is. But he can reach in other ways: names and boundaries and—warm water.

“No. I like. It. I like it.” Viktor closes his eyes, sagging, swaying—maybe he decides that he doesn’t have to hold himself upright anymore. “Can’t take shower. Might fall.”

And Anton doesn’t suggest to hold him. (There are no marks on the clothes, aside from the unkempt appearance, only marks underneath, at least as far as Anton can see: shadows of bruises here and there.)

“Okay. No shower, then. But you should... could at least take off your jacket and your shirt, and I will bring you a towel.” No, he should bring the towel _first_ , and then let Viktor have some space to undress. “Could you tell me whether you need urgent medical assistance?”

Viktor frowns slightly (gods, he looks so young but so tired and lost), fingers hovering on the lapels of his jacket (as though undressing was a command, fuck, how did he word it? Should he word everything as commands rather than suggestions?). “No.”

“All right. No is no. The bedroom is that way.”

“I know where the bedroom is. I know where everything is, here,” Viktor says with a hint of pride.

He rolls his eyes theatrically. “Oh good, he knows! Has broken in several times!”

“Yes.”

“Amazing. What a good boy!”

He feels immediately that he’s said the wrong thing, because Viktor goes very, very still, lips thin and tense, fingers tearing at the buttons of his shirt.

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_.

And he can’t touch Vik, he _can’t_ , even though, as usual, his instinct is to wrap someone in his arms, for comfort and protection. But not here. “Vitya,” he says gently.

“I’m. Okay,” Viktor says, his lips barely working.

Like fuck he is.

“I will bring you the towel,” Anton repeats and retreats into the bathroom to get his biggest, fluffiest towel. To give Viktor room to breathe.

Who did this, who _dared_ , Anton is going to find— No, he’s going to visit Viktor’s secretary, find out whether ruining whoever did this would undo Viktor’s work, and only _then_ decide.

He takes his time. Realizes he’s still walking around in shoes himself and in his jacket, takes them off, rolls up his sleeves. He’s been through this with too many people too many times, and each time it’s a nightmare. He wants to help and doesn’t know how. He can only make sure that they know he’s nearby, ready to give them everything they need.

Блядство.

Vitya.

...Gods, he’s stupid. Of course Vitya can barely talk: those marks on his throat...

He takes the towel and pads to the bedroom, keeping his gaze away from Viktor (on the bed already, and the jacket is taken off). “Here’s the towel. Do you want something to eat? Tea? Coffee? Do you want to make them yourself?”

“Tea. I trust you.” And Viktor looks up at him with eyes so wet and unguarded that Anton can barely stop himself from looking away.

He offers Viktor a smile. “Thank you.” He leaves the towel near Viktor. “May I take your jacket? I will hang it on a hanger, so it could dry properly.”

“Okay.”

He picks the jacket carefully, touches the inside. The lining is hot from Viktor’s body, but only slightly wet, seems that it’s from the rain that soaked the shirt, not that it managed to get through the jacket itself. “I’ll take it now, and then bring you tea, is that alright?”

“Alright.”

He forces himself to do everything properly, focusing on each tiny task, each movement: open the kettle, pour the water out into the flower pots, fill the kettle with water from the filter jug. Put it back on its base. Press the button. Find a suitable mug...

He wipes his cheek. His anger won’t help Viktor now, and he can’t let Viktor know he feels useless.

Viktor is shaken and hurting, Anton has to be solid for him, certain.

Decide on the tea blend—

He lowers his hands carefully from the cans.

Does he have any weapons in the bedroom? No, not guns, because kids come over often, he keeps one gun hidden away at home. But there are knives. There is a pen knife, right the fuck there in the desk drawer. Блядство. And he left Viktor alone there.

But he can’t just rush in. He can’t make sudden noises or move too quickly (Viktor’s flinch doesn’t leave his mind). He can’t raise his voice. He can’t...

He forces himself to finish with the tea. Chooses plain tea. He could have made chamomile, but of course Viktor would notice it right away, and might not appreciate an attempt to calm him. But maybe that’s what Viktor needs? Fuck, he should have asked. Idiot.

Okay, plain tea. Not too strong, not too weak. Warm but not too hot. After a bit of thinking, he gets a few plain crackers onto a saucer, too, and sweet cookies. He fills a mug, takes it and the saucer to the bedroom.

Viktor has the towel draped over his shoulders, and his hair is ruffled and still damp—curling on ends. He looks so much unlike the Director. He blinks, and looks up.

Anton lifts the mug. “Your tea.”

Viktor smiles—weakly, his eyes soft and crow’s feet running from the corners. “Thank you.” He closes his long, pale fingers on the mug.

Anton puts the saucer on the bedside table, moving a small lamp to the side. “Turn on the small light?”

“Yes. Yes.”

He pushes the button, then flips the switch on the wall. The darkness descends on them, and the orange light of the small lamp makes everything softer, more tender. Anton sits down on the edge of the bed. He can smell the rain on Viktor. The lamp light accentuates the curls.

Viktor leans on his shoulder, and Anton, after a moment of deliberation, wraps an arm around him. “You are safe here for now.”

“Yes,” Viktor breathes out. “I know.”


End file.
